Chapter 32

The bells of Mourning Hollow tolled before dawn.

Their slow, trembling sound carried through the fog, across the sleeping city, through the fields soaked in last night’s rain. Even the birds refused to sing. The palace, once a place of light and laughter, now stood silent—draped in black banners that fluttered weakly in the morning wind.

Queen Daphne Reigns was gone.

Or so the world believed.

Zerach stood at the highest balcony of the west tower, his eyes hollow, his body stiff like stone carved from sorrow. The rain had washed away the ashes from the war, but it could not wash away the ache in his chest. Every beat of his heart felt heavier than the armor he once wore.

Below, the people gathered—men who had fought beside him, women who had prayed for his return, children who once cheered when he rode through the gates. Now they all wept, clutching flowers and ribbons, singing broken hymns for the queen who had given them hope.

Zerach could not look at them. He could barely breathe.

“She saved us,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “And I couldn’t even save her.”

Behind him, the palace doors creaked. Lady Miren, Daphne’s most trusted handmaid, entered quietly, her face pale and swollen from tears. In her arms was a small bundle wrapped in silver silk—a bundle too still, too quiet.

“My king,” she said softly, “the physicians have done all they can. The boy… he did not survive the night.”

Zerach turned slowly, his eyes red-rimmed but empty. “Show me.”

She hesitated, then unfolded the silk. Inside lay a tiny infant, his skin pale as moonlight, his features eerily like Daphne’s. But there was no breath, no sound, only stillness.

Zerach fell to his knees. He reached out, trembling, and touched the boy’s hand. It was cold.

“My son…” His voice broke. “My heir… Daphne’s light.”

The weight of the moment crushed him. He pressed his forehead to the small body, tears spilling freely for the first time. The mighty king of Elora, breaker of empires, knelt like a child before the cruel face of fate.

Lady Miren stood behind him, silent, her heart twisting with guilt. For in her mind echoed the truth that no one—except three women—knew.

Queen Daphne had not given birth to one child.

She had given birth to two.

A boy and a girl.

The boy had been stillborn, his cord strangled in the struggle of birth. But the girl… the girl had breathed. Her cry had pierced the silence of that stormy night—a soft, trembling sound that had made Miren’s hands shake with awe and fear.

Daphne had seen her daughter for only a moment, weak and bleeding, her strength fading fast. “Hide her,” she whispered hoarsely, gripping Miren’s hand. “They’ll take her… they’ll use her. Don’t let them.”

Her words were faint, broken between sobs of pain. “Hide her… let her live free… not as a curse, not as a crown.”

Then she’d fainted.

By dawn, the queen had gone cold. And so, following her last wish, Miren and two midwives—ancient women sworn by blood—wrapped the baby girl in cloth and carried her through the hidden tunnels beneath the palace.

They traveled through the mist of dawn, past the fields, until they reached the edge of the Elaris Woods, a forbidden forest where no royal guards would tread.

There, in a small cottage where an old healer lived, they left the child. A locket with Daphne’s insignia hung around her tiny neck—a golden crescent entwined with a rose.

Her name, whispered only once, was Lyra.

Back in the palace, the funeral began.

Zerach stood beside Daphne’s casket, his armor polished but his spirit fractured. The priests of the old faith chanted their verses, their low voices echoing through the marbled hall. Candles flickered, their flames bending toward the cold draft that swept through the broken glass windows.

Zerach’s hand brushed over the edge of the casket. Her face—pale, serene, untouched by death’s cruelty—was covered in white petals. She looked asleep. Peaceful. Untouched.

But peace, to Zerach, was an illusion.

He remembered their last night together—the laughter, the warmth of her skin beneath his palms, the promise she whispered against his chest. “If I ever leave before you… let my love stay to guide you.”

He wanted to scream. To break the walls. To demand the gods return her.

But kings do not weep in front of their people.

So he stood tall, his jaw locked, and watched as they carried her body to the Hall of Rest, where generations of royal blood lay. The people knelt as she passed, their tears falling like rain upon the marble floor.

Lady Miren followed behind, her hands shaking as she clutched her rosary, whispering prayers not only for Daphne—but for the tiny heartbeat hidden far away in the woods.

That night, when the city had gone still, Miren returned to her chamber and locked the door.

She sat by the fire, her face buried in her hands.

“Forgive me, my queen,” she whispered. “I did as you asked… but what if it was wrong?”

A knock came at the door.

It was Captain Thoren, commander of the royal guard, a man who had known Daphne since she was a child. His expression was grim.

“Miren,” he said quietly, “His Majesty suspects something. He says the midwives disappeared after the birth. He wants to question you.”

Her heart pounded. “And what will I tell him? That his daughter lives while his son lies cold in the grave?”

Thoren’s jaw tightened. “If you tell him, he’ll never stop searching. And if he finds her… she’ll never have a normal life. You know what they’ll call her—a demon child, born of a cursed womb.”

Miren’s tears fell freely now. “She’s innocent. She’s Daphne’s child.”

“I know,” Thoren said softly, kneeling beside her. “That’s why we’ll protect her. But you must be strong. You must bury this truth deep.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “For her sake.”

Weeks passed.

The city mourned, the skies rained without mercy, and Zerach retreated into silence.

Every morning, he walked to Daphne’s resting place—a marble tomb carved with lilies and roses. He spoke to her as if she could hear him. Told her about the council meetings, the drought in the east, the rebuilding of the southern walls. And every time, his words ended the same way:

“I would give it all, Daphne. The throne, the crown, my soul—just to see you smile again.”

Sometimes, he thought he could still feel her near him.

A soft warmth in the air. The faint scent of jasmine. The whisper of her laughter.

But it was only memory.

One evening, as he stood by her tomb, Lady Miren approached, her steps quiet. She carried a small silver box.

“My king,” she said gently. “This was found among her things. I think… she meant for you to have it.”

He took it carefully, opening the lid. Inside was a letter, sealed with wax. Daphne’s handwriting. His hands shook as he unfolded it.

My love,

If you are reading this, it means our child has come—and I may not have stayed to see the sunrise beside you.

Know this: whatever happens, it was never your fault. Our love was born of light, and it will live beyond us.

If the gods are kind, they will send you peace through what I leave behind.

Hold our child close. See me in their eyes. And if there is another life, I will find you again.

—Daphne.

Zerach closed his eyes, his tears falling onto the page. “I tried,” he whispered. “But the gods took him, Daphne. They took him.”

He didn’t see the flicker of confusion in Miren’s gaze—didn’t hear the small, broken whisper escape her lips. “No, my queen… they didn’t take both.”

Far beyond the palace walls, in the quiet cradle of the Elaris Woods, the old healer rocked a small infant by the fire.

The baby’s hair was soft gold, her eyes pale blue—the same as her mother’s.

When she cried, the birds outside the cottage stirred and fluttered, as if the forest itself listened. The healer smiled faintly, tracing the locket around the child’s neck.

“Sleep, little one,” she murmured. “The world believes you gone, but your time will come. One day, they’ll know your name.”

She placed a kiss on the child’s forehead and whispered, “Lyra Reigns. Daughter of light. Child of two worlds.”

Outside, the wind howled through the trees, carrying the faintest echo from the palace bells—a song of mourning fading into dawn.

And in the distance, as the first rays of sunlight touched the forest, the hidden heir opened her eyes.